Wildfire Firechild

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3 years · 3 months · 19 days
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Dark Moon Prayer:

Ancient Wise One, wayfarer of the night. Take all that has to end, all that must disappear and die with you, into the darkness. I welcome your peace, I welcome the stillness. As you disappear into the dawn, so I choose to go within. Blessed be.

You are a primal dark warrior Knight. I, a pale primal dark ancient evil predatory gothic archaic vampiress clad in red. Our true love captures the very essence of our foreboding desires. Our nocturnal wanderings. Our deep lust for one another.
With a bond sanctified in blood, we know passion in a way that others can only dream about. We are not satisfied with the ordinary mores of amour. We explore the darker side of passion. Our quest is a deeper love that sates Our carnal desires. Our words, art and breath are the ominous verses of the night.

My Love

I approach the room
Just beyond the door
Always looking for my love
Cobwebbed walls look intently upon me
Urging me
Yet I will not leave without you.
The moon peers
through a broken window
Casting its blue light on my pallid skin
Blood red lips yearn to kiss you
Fingernails painted the shade of death
search in vain for your frail shoulders
Wine on the mantle
the color of deep crimson
A half drunk glass
A dagger birthed in the heart
A fire of passion
Storm to the eyes
A silent scream
A roaring rage
I will never leave without you

Take Me

You are my gothic knight
My dark Romeo who stirs me like no other.
I see you in my dreams
where my gluttony for you knows no boundaries.
You emit a refined, stately demeanor,
so pale and so serious.
All who know you fear your wickedness
Your gothic ways.
I shall serve you as your goth maiden
Standing at your side under the murky night sky
Take me.
Let me offer blood as a sign of my love.
As a symbol of my passion
Take me.

On Sacred Ground

I stray onto sacred ground
The resting place of souls bygone.
Solace is what I seek,
But there is no solace
No succor to be found
Not here among broken, fallen stones.
Nor bent, wilting trees.
I search for you under the moon
Thoughts of you race through my mind
Feelings better left unspoken.
This was our place
The fertile earth from which the black rose of our love took seed.
We exchanged blood amidst these graves.
Transfused our darkest thoughts and dreams.
It is here too that our love died.
A fitting place for something that is no more

The Object Before Me

I lie awake in my bed
Covered in sweat
A dripping cold sweat that cascades slowly down the surface of my pale skin.
I stare blankly at the sharpened blade before me
Gently, even lovingly, caressing the handle,
running my gothic fingers over its cutting edge.
The sky is especially black this evening
It makes me happy.
From the dwelling next door I hear laughter.
A vapid, perfunctory cackle that fills me with rage.
My morbid seclusion is affronted by such frivolity.
Again I stare at the blade
An object of ritual with
a grand, malevolent air.
It is beautiful.
I gently raise the knife so that it is held before my eyes.
It shall be consecrated in blood
As I am wont to do
Our Gothic Journey

Let us walk this evening
Together we two
And embark on a journey which can do no good.
Cutting through the mist of foggy moorland
Stepping over peat and marsh,
we walk into the deadest of night.
We are not occult figures.
Our pale, ashen skins light the way against a darkened sky
The fog grows dense
We are overcome by a sudden strangeness.
An impending gloom that rises
like a carefully graduated crescendo.
We know that something evil is in the distance.
Our nighttime journey has taken us far,
too far in fact as we come upon a wood,
a thick wood of beech and oak.
Without a moment's respite we hear footsteps.
They grow steadily louder as someone, or something, draws nigh.
Emerging from the distance is a man on a steed
A black horse of splendid bearing.
The fellow is clad in dark cape and
Victorian top hat turned up slightly at the brim.
His lips are an unusual shade of crimson,
painted on like a splattering of blood.
Lucy and I hold one another tightly.
Two Goths without fear of the night
trembling at this sinister presence.
The stranger stands before us.
He offers no salutation nor reason for his approach.
Gently, almost pleadingly, he takes Lucy by the hand
which he kisses in the most delicate manner.
She is mesmerized by the man, as if in a trance.
The gentleman speaks his first words,
telling her it is time to go.
Acquiescing to his genteel but firm command,
it is as if this is something she expects,
something it is her duty to abide.
Lucy ascends the horse without objection, without hesitation.
Together they ride off, leaving me alone in the wood
on this deadest of gothic nights.

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